


Hands Around My Neck

by afterandalasia



Category: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Church Sex, Community: disney_kink, F/M, Hate Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:05:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterandalasia/pseuds/afterandalasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no choice between him or the fire. He <i>is</i> the fire, burning through her. The worst part might be that she likes it.</p><p>(Or, shameless smut following on from the infamous hair-sniffing scene.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands Around My Neck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [little_elfie](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=little_elfie).



> Period- and canon-typical use of the slur g*psy.

"What are you _doing_?" she sneers, tossing her head. He pulls away slightly, but twists harder on her arm. It makes her grunt.

"Imagining a rope around that lovely neck."

"I'd rather my hands around yours," she says. There is venom in her voice, fire, and she tugs against his grip despite the pain that it must cause her. Her body shifts against his, and he feels it like fire throughout him, along with the vibration of her voice in her chest.

There are footsteps somewhere in the distance. "Who's there? Who is that?"

The Archdeacon. A frown on his face, Frollow looks round, then clamps one hand over the gypsy's mouth so that she cannot cry out and give them away. She gives a muffled sound, squirms again, her bare feet kicking on the floor, but then he is pulling her away, deeper into the shadows of the cathedral, cold stone even with the firelight.

He slams her against the wall, one hand still over her mouth, gripping one of her wrists with the other. "Don't call for him," he hisses, warning, "or-"

Her open hand strikes him on the cheek with a ringing sound. Frollo gasps, his cheek burning, and before he can think he has released her mouth to slap her in return, revelling in the mark that rises on her cheek. It contrasts with the flashing green of her eyes as she narrows them towards him.

"Or you will be caught?" she replies. But she is not crying out for the archdeacon.

"Or you will make yourself a victim," he says. Her eyes flash as he pins her bodily to the wall, pressing his body to her, her breasts heaving against him with each breath. The stone of the cathedral is cold beneath his hands, and he knows it will be cold against her back, gritty beneath the palms she presses against it. Frollo wraps his hand around her jaw, his eyes boring into hers, as she sneers in return. "And I don't think you have that in you."

"You think that you know me, minister?" Her breath is hot on his face.

A smile curls his thin lips. "Better than you would imagine, gypsy."

Before she can reply, he kisses her, hot and possessive, forcing his tongue into her mouth. She does not push him away; one hand winds into his hair, tightening until he hurts, and she kisses him forcibly back. A grunt leaves his throat, matching her fast breathing, and he raises his hands to squeeze at her breasts. They give beneath his hands and above the hard lines of her corset, and she arches her back to press against him as her tongue presses into his mouth in return. It is hard to breathe with the kiss and the scent of her, earthy and sweet both together, and when he pauses to gasp for air she kisses his lower lip hard enough to hurt, hard enough to send a burst of desire straight to his groin.

Her hand stays tight in his hair, and the other scratches across the back of his neck. He tries to bite her tongue in return, but with a low chuckle that burrs through her body she evades him. The hand in her hair forces his head back, and as he tightens his hold on her breasts she sinks her teeth into his neck, clean and sharp, making him grunt.

"Do you like that, judge?" she breathes, voice heavy with lust.

"Do you like that, demon?" he replies. She drags her tongue across the sore spot on his skin for a reply, and then he grabs her chin and kisses her, hard, once again.

Bells ring in the distance of the cathedral, echoing through the halls across the sound of their harsh breathing. Her fingers press hard against his ribs as she takes hold of him, her grip strong from her life, his body shocked by the ferocity of touch. He presses one thigh between her legs, parting them for him, her hips tipping forward to grind against him through the fabric of her skirt.

"If I am the demon," she says, "what does that make you?"

There is no reply for that. He draws back, letting her away, only to push her up against the wall again. The way that the breath is forced from her lungs and her head thrown back burns through him; he goes back to her, cupping her jaw to hold her mouth still. One of her legs raises, bare foot scraping along his leg, and then he hooks one hand beneath her thigh to hitch it up around his waist. The movements are animal, instinctual; he is sure that only a demon such as her could draw such motions from him. Esmerelda groans as he kisses the upturned line of her throat, licks and nips at her skin, his hand forcing itself up the toned, soft lines of her thighs beneath her skirt.

 _For succumbing,_ he thinks, _it makes me a man_. But he cannot speak whilst he is sucking on her neck, and she does not seem to care anyway as he slips his hand further and further up her thighs, already parted for him, the musky warmth between slick beneath his fingers. He bites her skin at the same time as he sinks two fingers into her, and he is not sure which it is that makes her gasp.

One of her hands slides down the back of his robes, the rough skin of her palm at first but then the points of her fingertips, her nails, dragging over his shoulderblades. Frollo rocks his fingers into her, the heel of his hand rubbing against her pubis, to feel the soft movement of her inner muscles around him as she reaches up, pressing her fingers into his mouth.

He swirls his tongue around them and looks up to meet her eyes again, both their gazes hazy with lust. Her lips are parted, reddened from their ferocious meeting with his, and she muffles sounds in her throat as he finds with his fingers a place that makes her buck against him, reaching for it over and over as he watched her face start to sheen with sweat and felt her fingers trace across his tongue.

"Where did you learn your tricks, Judge Frollo?" she murmurs, leaning in to let her breath dance on his face. Her fingers hook his teeth, make him jerk against her, as her other hand digs her nails into his back. "With whores in backstreets? With other women in this house of God? Or does it come from your sick mind when you fuck your hand at night, because no woman will take you?"

He bites down on her fingers, and she withdraws them with a hiss, at the same time as he pulls his hand away. He plants it against the stone wall, his fingers leaving slick marks on the stone, the other hand still tight on her side to hold her to him. "The demon you put in me is enough, gypsy," he snarls, and the pounding of his heartbeat seems to be coming more from his cock than from his chest. He fumbles to hitch up his robes, and hears her laugh darkly as he tries to pull the fabric aside. Anger flashing, Frollo spins her around so that she is pushed face-first against the wall, her head turned sideways to press her cheek into the stone.

He tugs his robe up, then her skirt, bundling the fabric aside to expose the curves of her ass, her thighs. She groans as he enters her, fingers spreading her entrance to ready it for his prick, and he guesses that the anticipation ached in her cunt as much as in his cock. The gypsy braces herself against the wall, hands flat, as he fucks her from behind, gasps and muffled grunts leaving his lips. His hands creep round to squeeze her breasts again, reaching beneath the loose fabric of her top to pinch and twist at her hardnened nipples, feeling the weight of her flesh fill his palms.

"Is this how you win, gypsy?" he hisses in her ear. "Is this how you claim men?"

"My name," she says, her voice broken by panting as he feels her bucking under him. "Is Esmeralda."

As she speaks she reaches her climax, biting her lip to muffle the cry that she would give as he feels a rush of hot wet around his cock, the clenching of her muscles. He grabs a handful of her hair, feeling it beneath his fingers, and once again holds it to his face to inhale deeply as he comes inside her, feeling the wet heat of their mingled juices.

The bells ring on as, panting, they draw apart. Frollo backs away, smoothing down his robes, as the gypsy girl turns so that her back is against the wall. She laughs in a low tone, tossing her head of black curls, then walks back up to him and wraps her hand around the back of his neck. It smarts on the scratches she has left there, and Frollo winces before he realises that she is running her hand around to the front instead, cupping his throat.

"I'll see you in hell, Judge Frollo," she hisses, but lust is still in her gaze and he can imagine his semen smeared on her thighs.

"That means we'll both be there, _Esmeralda_ ," he replies, and her name tastes like honey and poison on his tongue.

She whirls and runs into the cathedral, the bells on her skirt tinkling, bare feet almost silent. For the briefest moment, he wonders whether she wears the same smile as he does, then he turns to leave himself.

Let her have her sanctuary. It will not last long.


End file.
